


PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-28
Updated: 2003-01-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 19:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14796839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Don't we all have days like this?





	1. PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy**

**by:** Evelyn

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything  
**Category:** Romance, Josh/Donna  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Guns Not Butter - and beyond  <g>  
**Summary:** Don't we all have days like this?  
**Author's Note:** Special thanks to Shelley for her encouragement and fabulous beta skills; to Rhonda who's a genius at clever titles; and to Annie and Tammy for their help with shampoos  <g> Enjoy!

She counted the days in her head, and then her mood made a little more sense. It was almost that time of month. But seriously, Donnatella Moss reasoned, the day really did suck.

She'd slipped from his bed at 5:30. "Where are you going?" he mumbled, his hand patting the empty space next to him, and reaching out to grab her warm body back to his.

"Shhh, go back to sleep. I'll see you in the office."

"Mmmmm, ok." She could barely hear his response, but the soft snore that followed assured her that, unlike herself, he would enjoy another hour of sleep.

She'd realized late the night before, as she laid in bed waiting for him to come out from the bathroom, that she didn't have with her the brown boots that went so perfectly with the skirt she intended to wear the next day. She might have been willing to live with the fashion faux pas of wearing black shoes with a chocolate brown skirt, but she also unfortunately remembered that she had ripped her last pair of panty hose on the file cabinet in his office. She knew she should have gotten out of bed and headed for her own apartment, but then he swooped in and started tickling her, one thing led to another...and so she found herself on the Metro at 5:45 in the morning, heading back to her own apartment in order to get dressed and still be in the office before he arrived. She wondered, briefly, how folks with two homes handled the problem. Did you just buy two of everything so that you never were left with the black shoes, brown skirt dilemma?

And then she discovered that at 7:15 in the morning, the Mess was already out of pumpkin muffins. The news prompted irrational thoughts of despair. The coffee of the day was cinnamon hazelnut and that made her want to gag. She wanted something smooth and yummy because even at 7:15 in the morning, when the only muffin choice was bran, she knew that a cup of chocolate macadamia nut coffee could get her through to 10 a.m. Emphasis on the chocolate part, the key ingredient during a certain time of the month. 

She settled for a large cup of plain java, stirred in two packets of sugar because, she figured, who needed Sweet'nLow when you were forgoing the calories of a muffin. She even added a dollop of half-and-half just because she was entitled, and then rethought her decision and opted to buy a bran muffin to unclog the arteries from the rich milk.

Her desk, which had been clear when she'd left the office at 8:30 the night before, was once again cluttered with incoming faxes, staff reports to be distributed, and a stack of mind numbing, statistic-ladened material from the Department of Education. The unwieldy package, she quickly realized, had been plopped on her desk by an over-eager mail clerk who had ignored that the bundle had been addressed to Will Bailey. She sighed as she slipped into her chair and pushed over the mound of material to free up a small sliver of space. She unwrapped her muffin and carefully peeled back the perforated slot on the coffee cup. Her goal was simple. She'd take a moment to relax before the day erupted. Just as she put the cup to her lips to take her first sip of the steaming hot brew, the quiet reverie was broken by the sound of...

"Good morning, Ms. Moss," boomed the familiar, well-rested, and all too cheery voice of the Deputy Chief of Staff bounding down the hall and stopping at the doorway of her cubicle. The dimples were out in full force and she found it hard not to grin back. He reached down for her cup of steaming coffee, and took a healthy swallow.

"Mmmmm, just the way I like it."

"I'm so glad. Me too," she said, but noticed he didn't seem to pick up on the hint of sarcasm.

He reached for the muffin, but wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, bran."

"What? You don't like bran muffins?" she asked, with a small smile.

"Donna, you know I don't like those kind," he whined, waving his hand at the offending baked product.

"I didn't buy it for you," she politely pointed out, taking a small bite, and remembering, with regret, that bran muffins from the Mess tended to be dry, very dry. She reached for her coffee, and he reluctantly ceded it to her. She took a sip and put it down on her desk. He reached for it again and took another healthy swallow.

"You want to go over your schedule now?" she asked.

"Yeah, but I need for you to sandwich in Johnston and McCoy later today. I've got to get them on board before the weekend."

She sighed and reached for the calendar. "You've got appointments straight through until 7 p.m."

"Well, slot them in for 7:15. It shouldn't take more than an hour."

"I was kind of hoping this would be an early evening," she muttered, rubbing her back which had started to ache.

"What did you say?" the Deputy Chief of Staff looked up from the fax he was reading, taking another gulp of coffee.

"Nothing," she waved off. "I'll be in with your schedule once I confirm those appointments. Would you do me a favor and carry these..." she motioned to the misdelivered stack of materials.

"Josh, I need you for a minute before staff," a harried CJ stopped in the hallway. "Hi, Donna."

She nodded in acknowledgment and reached for the cup of coffee he'd put on her desk as he headed into his office with the Press Secretary. It was empty. She glanced at her watch. 7:45. She was right. This day sucked.


	2. PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy 2

**PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy**

**by:** Evelyn

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything  
**Category:** Romance, Josh/Donna  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Guns Not Butter - and beyond  <g>  
**Summary:** Don't we all have days like this?  
**Author's Note:** Special thanks to Shelley for her encouragement and fabulous beta skills; to Rhonda who's a genius at clever titles; and to Annie and Tammy for their help with shampoos  <g> Enjoy!

* * *

The day didn't improve as the hours ticked away. She was working her way through the weekly reports from the legislative assistants, compiling the individual documents into a summary that would go to Josh and Leo. By noon she'd discovered, again, that Ed, political whiz-kid that he was, couldn't spell worth a damn. Hadn't he ever heard of spell check? 

"It helps to have a noun and verb in the same sentence," she muttered.

"What?"

She looked up and found Margaret standing next to her desk. 

"Larry's report," she pointed to the copy on her desk.

"Mr. Grammar Is for Wimps'?" whispered the redhead assistant.

"That's the guy," Donna laughed.

"Want to grab some lunch?"

She sighed as she looked at her desk, the pile of reports, and her In basket. She could feel a pity party starting. Maybe a tuna melt on rye and a black and white milkshake would help. She started to nod, when Josh came racing down the hall.

"I think we've got Steadman on board, but I need the stats on foreign aid to Micronesia from 1994-98, broken down by category, health, education, you know...and I need the information from Health and Human Services on the needle exchange program in Ohio...and if Leland from Senator Harris' office calls and tries to muscle into the group for tomorrow, tough noogies."

"Is that a direct quote?"

He paused. "Finesse it so it sounds better but the answer is still no...he cheats," he announced indignantly, then hustled into his office, holding out his hand for the message pile handoff.

Margaret's eyes widened.

"Golf," she whispered. "I'll walk down to the Mess with you and grab a yogurt." 

The day went downhill from there, and her mood didn't improve when Ginger, bless her, decided to circulate a chain e-mail that warned that on Super Bowl Sunday the water systems of major cities were in danger of collapsing because of so many simultaneous toilet flushings at half-time. Thanks for sharing', she thought as she hit the delete key.

Finally at 8:15, while waiting for Johnston and McCoy to emerge from the office of the DCOS, she reached for a couple of Midol, swished them down with some lukewarm Yoohoo, and contemplated what calorie-laden food would offer comfort in the pity party that she'd scheduled for 9 p.m. Maybe she'd watch Steel Magnolias'. Did she have to stop for kleenex on the way home?

At 8:35, Johnston and McCoy, otherwise known as the Wonder Twins, or more formally as the Democratic senators from Vermont and Maine, came strolling out of Josh's office. She smiled at the two elderly men, and with a nod from Josh, started to escort them to the lobby.

"Donna, dear, have you heard this one?" the patrician Senator from Maine grinned. "You're New Hampshire if you own flannel shirts, BUT you're really New Hampshire if you wear a tie with one."

The two men could hardly contain their laughter, and once again her minor in Drama paid off as Donna gave an award-winning performance as an amused assistant.

"You be sure and tell that one to President Bartlet," the elderly statesman from Vermont encouraged when they reached the lobby.

"I will for sure, sir," she smiled, giving silent thanks that it wasn't another Wisconsin joke, and bade the two Senators goodnight as they walked out into the evening air, still chortling.

She hustled back down the hall, grabbed her coat, and headed for Josh's office. She stood in the doorway as he finished a phone conversation.

"That's fine. Donna will handle it tomorrow morning. Not a problem. She'll be glad to fill in," Josh glanced up and motioned to Donna to come in. He didn't notice the arctic wind that entered with her. "I'll tell her. 8:00, no problem." He hung up the phone.

"I'll be glad to be where at 8:00 tomorrow and that better not be a.m.?" she said through gritted teeth.

"Or it could be," Josh said tentatively.

The death rays she was aiming at the curly-haired politico were not nearly effective enough, she thought.

"Josh, I'm tired, cranky, and need a day off. What on earth did you just agree for me to do tomorrow," and even she was slightly appalled at the whining tone of her voice. She'd been hoping for cold, professional reserve, maybe even belligerance, but all that was left in her bag of emotions was bitchy. Ok, she'd play bitchy. Serve him right.

"That was Mrs. Bartlet. She asked if I could attend a meeting tomorrow morning of the Women's Caucus, and since I can't..."

"Because you're playing golf," she said incredulously.

"With the Democratic Congressional leadership," Josh interjected.

"And keeping score," she added.

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Well it's not like you're planning to whiff the ball and let them win," she pointed out. 

"Hell, no."

"So making friends isn't the goal here," she explained, in as reasonable a voice as she could muster under the circumstances.

"Well I'm not looking to add to my list of enemies, but..."

"But you're not about to lose either."

He didn't answer, but because he was a graduate of both Yale and Harvard, he quickly did some mental calendar calculations of his own.

"Are you open to bribery?" he asked smoothly.

"Put your best offer on the table," she demanded.

"Dinner tomorrow night at Antonio's followed by one chick flick," he proposed.

She considered her options carefully. "Dinner at Antonio's, two chick flicks, and you get up and do the bagels and coffee run on Sunday morning," she said, then because she couldn't resist those brown eyes, added a small smile. She was nothing if not practical, recognizing that fighting the Saturday morning meeting was a lost cause.

"Deal, but I get the editorial section of the Post first," he insisted, feeling the need to balance the agreement.

An easy concession since she preferred to start the day with the Style section.

"I'll see you tomorrow night," she said, starting to walk out.

"Hey, where are you going?" he asked in astonishment.

"Home and my bathtub," she answered truthfully.

"I've got a bathtub with jets of warm swirling water and..." he lowered his voice and wriggled his eyebrows, "big enough for more than one person."

She smiled, but shook her head. "That's a tempting offer, but I think..."

"And ice cream."

"Chocolate?"

"Is there any other flavor?"

"And wine?" because she thought a little alcohol might take off the edge.

"Warm bath, chocolate ice cream, whipped cream, and wine," he proposed.

"Whipped cream?" she asked, since that hadn't been on her list.

"It's a little extra touch for me," he grinned, and reached for his coat.


	3. PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy 3

**PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy**

**by:** Evelyn

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything  
**Category:** Romance, Josh/Donna  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Guns Not Butter - and beyond  <g>  
**Summary:** Don't we all have days like this?  
**Author's Note:** Special thanks to Shelley for her encouragement and fabulous beta skills; to Rhonda who's a genius at clever titles; and to Annie and Tammy for their help with shampoos  <g> Enjoy!

* * *

They'd barely made it up the steps, stopping on the landing for a slow, lingering kiss. Finally, they broke apart. Grinning, he grabbed her hand and they ran the last six steps to his apartment door. He backed her against the wall and grabbed another urgent kiss before at last, he slid the key inside the lock. They stumbled inside his apartment and the need for the remaining shreds of public decorum vanished. His fingers deftly began unbuttoning her white silk blouse, all the while his lips remained firmly in contact with hers. Her hands were busy too, pulling his shirt from his pants, then sliding beneath the cotton to skim the surface of his skin. 

It never ceased to amaze her. Their need for this physical contact remained in check throughout office hours, but was unleashed each time they were alone. He'd gotten down to the fourth button of her shirt and his fingertips danced across the lace of her bra. His lips were moving sensuously down her neck....when the phone rang. 

"Ignore it," he muttered, nibbling the alabaster skin of her shoulder.

She had no problem with that concept since she was focused on unbuckling his belt.

The answering machine clicked on and after a moment, they heard the unmistakable voice of the Chief of Staff. They stopped, frozen in their positions.

"Josh. You're not answering your cell. Call me as soon as you get in. We've a got a problem with Jenkins and it needs to be solved tonight."

"Damn," he groaned. He remembered tossing his cellphone, set on vibrate for the meeting in the Oval Office, into his backpack before leaving the office. He stepped back, while she straightened her skirt and began rebuttoning her blouse. Her view of the day snapped back into focus as she wearily made her way to the freezer, while he picked up the phone and punched in speed dial 3.

Ok, she reasoned, the rude interruption didn't have to be a total disaster. There were always two men she could count on, Ben and Jerry. She reached for her stash of Phish Food, chocolate ice cream with gooey marshmallow, caramel swirl & fudge fish. All she saw in the cavernous cold space were two trays of ice cubes, an aging box of frozen peas, and a bottle of Smirnoff's. She frantically ran her hand around the frigid walls, stepped back, and slammed the door shut. She marched into the living room, eyes afire, ready to do battle with the thief who'd dared to steal her lifegiving cache.

"No problem, I'll touch base with him on the fourteenth hole," he laughed. "Talk to you tomorrow," and hung up the phone.

It was probably the late hour, or maybe the dim light, but he didn't catch the look on her face when he first spied her. He reached out, ready to pick up where they'd left off.

"You promised," she swore, waving her hands in the air in frustration.

He looked confused. "Promised?"

"You don't even like Phish Food," she accused.

Again, it could only have been the lateness of the hour and the sexual longing that left the Deputy Chief of Staff wondering why they were discussing Gail and her dried flakes of sustenance.

"Huh?" was the only intelligent response he could muster.

"My ice cream...you ate my ice cream. How could you?" she wailed.

At last, he realized the point of the conversation, and more importantly, that he wasn't the culprit. 

"I didn't," he offered, in a soothing voice. "Andi finished it off the other night."

"You let Andi eat *my* ice cream?" she charged.

He backpedaled. "Not so much let her, as she just took it. You know when she met Toby here after we watched the game that went into overtime. She was hungry...well, more than hungry, I mean she chows down like a linebacker...and twins," he rambled, in hopes that her more caring nature would kick in at the thought of the pregnant Congresswoman in search of sustenance.

She, on the other hand, couldn't believe that she was now not only out of ice cream, but also was being asked to find forgiveness in her heart. Ok, she reasoned, she could handle this setback, but she mentally knocked ten dollars off the shower gift for Representative Wyatt.

He carefully stepped closer and ran a hand down her silk-clad arm. "Why don't you call for a pizza and I'll run a bath," he offered with a smile. She relaxed and stepped forward, willing to let bygones be bygones. She kissed his lips and headed for the kitchen where the number of the pizza place was posted on the refrigerator.

"I'm getting extra cheese and mushrooms," she called.

"Just on your half," he answered good-naturedly from the bathroom. "Ask Giuseppe to throw some pepper flakes on my meatball half."

With the water filling the deep tub, he came back into the living room. She handed him a glass of white wine with a kiss. She'd turned on a John Coltrane CD.

"Pizza will be here in twenty minutes. I caught Giuseppe just as he was putting a pie into the oven. He'll add the ingredients, then send it over with the delivery guy on his next run. I think he could hear the desperation in my voice," she chuckled, taking another sip of her wine. She pulled him down on the sofa. He curled his arm around her shoulders and for a few moments, they cuddled in comfortable silence, listening to the music.

"You go ahead and get in the tub. I'll wait for the pizza, then join you," he said softly, brushing a kiss on her hair.

She nodded, unwilling to get up from such a comfortable spot, but relishing the idea of a hot bath.

"You put in..."

"Bubbles are abounding," he reassured her.

"Don't be long," she said, slowly unbuttoning her shirt with one hand, while keeping hold of his hand with the other.

He eyed her longingly, and wondered briefly about getting out of the tub to answer the door with a towel around his waist. But he decided he didn't want to be interrupted once they were both ensconced in the warm water, with bubbles on places he wanted to explore. He prayed that the delivery boy would be speedy.

He leaned back against the couch cushions as she wandered into the bathroom. He took a sip of wine, enjoying the saxophone riff.

"What the hell is this?"

His head snapped up and he faced the demon from Hell waving the bottle of bubble bath he'd carefully poured into the steaming water.

"Um...bubble bath?" 

"Whose?" she charged.

"What?" he asked, again confused, but sensing danger.

"It's not mine, and I presume you don't normally use," she sniffed the bottle and made a face, "strawberry scented shampoo. I've never smelled like a strawberry in my life."

"It's not yours?" his voice went higher.

"You don't know the difference between Bajik Spa Tropical Flower Bath Salts and Suave Strawberry Shampoo?" she asked incredulously.

He thought the truth was the only way to go under the circumstances. "Um, no."

"Whose shampoo is this," she said, waving the bottle in the air, "and where the Hell are the bath salts that my sister gave me for Christmas?"

And then it struck him. The bottle of hibiscus-mimosa-passion flower-scented bath salts had been broken by his cleaning lady the previous week. He'd found the apologetic note from her when he came home...and the shampoo? He knew the answer to that question, but doubted he had the guts to offer it up.

He needn't have bothered because when he checked her face, he could see clearly that his bright, astute, insightful girlfriend had connected the dots.

"You've got to be kidding," she bellowed, flinging the bottle at him as if it were on fire.

"It's from over a year ago," he offered as consolation.

"You expect me to get into a tub of Amy's bubbles," she asked incredulously, buttoning up her shirt with incredible speed.

"Where are you going," he sputtered.

"Where I should have gone in the first place. Home where there's chocolate ice cream that nobody's given away and my own bath salts," she growled. She held him in place with a glare.

"If I were you, I'd clean out the bathroom cabinet of any beauty products that smell like strawberries...they're not mine," she huffed. She paused a moment, then added, "And you know that tie that you think I don't know where it came from," she pointed at his neckwear. 

He nodded slowly.

"It was from Mandy and it belongs in the same pile as the strawberry shampoo," she said making a face, then turned and stomped out the door.


	4. PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy 4

**PMS: Midol, Migraines, and Mandy**

**by:** Evelyn

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything  
**Category:** Romance, Josh/Donna  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Spoilers:** Everything through Guns Not Butter - and beyond  <g>  
**Summary:** Don't we all have days like this?  
**Author's Note:** Special thanks to Shelley for her encouragement and fabulous beta skills; to Rhonda who's a genius at clever titles; and to Annie and Tammy for their help with shampoos  <g> Enjoy!

* * *

She rode the Metro home in righteous indignation. A teenage boy, dressed in torn baggy jeans, a scruffy Wizards t-shirt, and black, untied basketball shoes made the fatal error of sitting down next to her, flinging his backpack next to her boots, rap music blaring from his discman. She could hear the thudding bass sounds despite the fact that he was wearing headphones. Then the budding rapster rashly decided to lip sync along with Eminem. Death rays shot out from the baby blue eyes of the blonde assistant, and this time, they were effective. The teen hastily picked up his backpack and moved to the other end of the compartment.

"Humpf" she muttered. 

Fifteen minutes later, she exited the Metro station and began the two block hike to her apartment. She was exhausted, hungry, and maybe just a tad regretful. She thought longingly of a mushroom-extra cheese pizza and wondered if perhaps she had acted in haste.

When at last she got inside her apartment it seemed...what was the word, she mused. Lonely?' The pity party was about to begin.

The light on her answering machine was flashing. She pressed start' and heard a familiar voice.

"Donna. Just want to check you got home safe. Call me."

She quickly punched speed dial 1, but got only an answering machine with a familiar voice urging her to leave a message at the beep. 

Where was he? 

"I'm home....um, I'm sorry. I kind of over-reacted. I'll call you in the morning." She hung up. She considered calling his cellphone. But maybe he was in the bathroom...in the big tub with the swirling jets of warm water...warm water that smelled like strawberries...taking off a hideous tie that had been given by the spawn of Satan, sister of a strawberry scented she-devil.

She snorted and headed for the kitchen.

She opened the refrigerator door and the pickings were sad. Lemon yogurt. Just what she needed, more yogurt. She scanned the other options. Penicillin with a touch of cheddar cheese was the only way to describe the moldy chunk of dairy product on the second shelf. Four Diet Cokes, no wine. And two oranges.

She mourned again the loss of the extra cheese, mushroom half pizza that Giuseppe lovingly made...and maybe the company of the guy who liked extra pepper flakes on his meatball half.

She sighed and decided to move directly to dessert. She opened the freezer, reaching for her pals, Ben and Jerry. Moving quickly past the Lean Cuisine boxes, her hand grasped the familiar brown and white carton. She let out a gasp when she read the label. 

One Sweet Whirled, caramel and coffee ice creams with marshmallow and caramel swirls and coffee flavored fudge chips.

A favorite of a curly haired politician.

She remembered they polished off Phish Food on Sunday night. After a day spent wandering around the Smithsonium, they grabbed a quick dinner at the Hawk and Dove. It was actually going to be a leisurely meal, but while nursing their beers, she'd been rubbing her foot up and down his calf, sometimes wandering a little higher. 

"Let's get outta here," he growled.

Throwing money down on the table, grabbing her hand, they practically sprinted from the bar. Later that night, he brought the carton of ice cream to bed and they shared spoonfuls until they finished it off. It made up for the skimpy dinner. 

She sighed.

She opened the cabinet and reluctantly pulled down the jars of peanut butter and grape jelly. She checked. No bread, but a box of Ritz crackers. It would have to do.

She carefully made four neat cracker sandwiches, grabbed a can of soda, and headed for the bathroom. She placed dinner on the floor and ran the hot water. A quick peek of the medicine cabinet revealed...no bath salts. 

"Damn," she muttered. She remembered using them up weeks earlier. 

She sighed. She'd trade bubbles for companionship. 

She quickly doffed her clothes and climbed into the bubble-less hot water. She reached down and grabbed a pb and j cracker sandwich. It was neither satisfying nor soothing. She climbed out of the tub, toweled off, and donned the terrycloth robe that hung on the back of the door.

She needed comfort. Rummaging around her bureau drawer she at last found what she was looking for...a pair of blue and white striped flannel pajama bottoms and an extra-large sized Harvard sweatshirt that still faintly smelled of the musky aftershave he wore the previous Sunday. She also spotted, and promptly dropped into the trashcan, a Naval Academy t-shirt.

Suddenly she remembered ...she hustled back to the kitchen, opened the cabinet above the stove, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was still there from her holiday baking spree. An unopened can of Duncan Hines chocolate frosting. She peeled back the lid and wandered back out into the living room. She flopped down on the couch, clicked on the Lifetime channel, and scooped a fingerful of frosting. She settled back to watch Jane Seymour play a woman who marries the biological father of her adopted son in order to give the boy a two-parent home and of course, what began as a marriage of convenience becomes a marriage of love. 

Funny, she thought, how relationships start out one way and destiny...she reached for the box of kleenex on the end table.

A knock on the door startled her. 

A glance through the peep hole elicited a huge grin.

She flung open the door to face a tie-less Democrat, with a pizza box in his right hand, and in his left hand...one pint of Phish Food.

The End


End file.
